


AELDWS Drabbles

by involuntaryorange



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4457639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles I write for Arthur/Eames Last Drabble Writer Standing. Each drabble will be a new chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleight of Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: souvenir

Arthur’s life is not the kind that lends itself to souvenirs. When you live out of a suitcase, you tend not to have much space for knickknacks. Especially if you like three-piece suits as much as Arthur does.

He’s at a casino in Monaco, tailing a mark: a scarred thug who just happens to have a mental Rolodex of crime bosses in thirteen European countries. While the mark plays blackjack and sexually harasses a cocktail waitress, Arthur bides his time at a nearby craps table, waiting for an opportunity to slip one of his chips — which the team’s forger embedded with GPS trackers — into the mark’s pocket.

With most of his attention on the mark, Arthur nearly misses the man next to him swapping out one of the dice before he shoots. He’s good, but Arthur’s better. Arthur smirks as the man wins a decent but not suspicious amount of money and reverses the swap before returning the dice to the dealer.

Under the pretense of reaching for his drink, Arthur leans toward the man and mutters into his ear, “You need to work on your sleight of hand.”

The man’s lips twitch, barely perceptibly. He presses closer, plucks a chip from Arthur’s stack and flips it nonchalantly. “And you, darling, need a better forger.”

The man glances at his pocket-watch and, with a drawled “Must be going, lovely to meet you” and a pat to Arthur’s chest, swaggers off. Glancing back at the blackjack table, Arthur realizes that a) the mark has left, and b) the man has taken one of his tagged chips. He curses under his breath and gathers his drink.

It’s not until he returns to his hotel room that night that he finds the weighted die in his jacket pocket. He keeps it.


	2. The Upper Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: negotiation

Eames drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “A weekend at a ski chalet in the Swiss Alps.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Confident.”

“One always starts with a highball offer in these sorts of dealings.”

Arthur pursed his lips, considering. “A cup of coffee. As in, you go out and bring me back a cup of coffee, which I drink in pleasant silence.”

“I’m wounded, darling.” Eames laid a hand dramatically over his heart. “A day trip to the Provençal countryside.”

Arthur snorted. “And subject myself to endless French puns?” He leaned his chair back even further. “A single cocktail. At the bar, no booth.”

“How do you feel about opera?”

“I’d rather get shot in the kneecap.”

“The theatre, then. I can get us into any West End production.”

“A movie. A short one where stuff explodes.”

Eames wrinkled his nose. Time to switch tactics. “I take you out for a nice steak and blow you in the men’s loo.”

If Eames weren’t a scholar of human behavior, he might have missed the way Arthur’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair, the way his pupils dilated ever-so-slightly. But he was, and they did. _Bingo_.

“I prefer burgers,” Arthur said levelly.

“A burger, and my hotel room. Final offer.”

Arthur leaned forward. “A _good_ burger, with sweet potato fries, and _my_ hotel room.”

“Deal. A pleasure doing business with you, darling.” Eames grinned and stuck out his hand.

Arthur kissed it with a smirk.


	3. All the Wrong Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur just wanted to fulfill his Space-Time Studies distribution requirement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "precision," sci-fi AU
> 
> Thanks to ladyprydian for her awesome beta-ing!

The first time Arthur tried out the teleporter he built in his Chronotopic Engineering course, he turned up in Eames’s dorm room. Eames, lying on his bed flipping through a textbook, appeared startled.

“Arthur? What are you doing here?”

Arthur looked around, puzzled. “Shit, I was supposed to wind up in the dining hall.”

“Well, you’re only off by, oh, half a mile.”

“I must’ve fucked up my coordinates.” Arthur sighed and shrugged. “I guess I’ll just head back to class. Sorry about this.”

***

“We should really come up with a system,” Eames remarked the third time Arthur corporealized in the middle of his threadbare carpet. “Y’know, in case I have a visitor. I’d suggest a sock on the doorknob, but you’ve been bypassing the doorknob altogether.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur gritted out, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“Your precision is excellent,” Eames said reassuringly. “You just need to work on your accuracy.”

***

Arthur’s accuracy didn’t improve.

Over the next few weeks Eames seemed to grow used to Arthur’s unexpected materializations — initially only in his room, but then over an increasingly large and inexplicable radius. By the time Arthur appeared in Eames’s shower, Eames merely nodded at him and said, “While you’re here, could you pass the shampoo?”

Trudging back to the Engineering building in sopping wet clothes was slightly humiliating, though at least the chill distracted Arthur from the memory of Eames’s naked body.

***

Arthur took a breath before opening his eyes. When he saw the dining hall, he nearly dropped to his knees and kissed the disgusting floor. Instead, he punched the air and shouted, “Yes! Fucking _finally_!”

Then a familiar voice behind him said, “Well done, darling!” 

He slumped in defeat, turning to find Eames at a nearby table, halfway through a sandwich. Eames smiled brightly and shoved the other chair out with his foot.

“You know,” Eames said as Arthur collapsed into the chair, “I’m starting to think accuracy isn’t your problem. Sandwich?”

Arthur accepted the proffered food and his apparent fate.


	4. Filling in the Gaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And to think Eames accused Arthur of being too predictable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: amnesia

Eames was just messing around. It’s not every day you get the drop on Arthur, so when a bad batch of Somnacin left the point man with a (temporary!) lacuna where his memories of the past two years should’ve been, and when Arthur blinked blearily at Eames and asked him why he was there, Eames suppressed a smirk and said “I’m your boyfriend.”

He was prepared for Arthur to scream in horror. He was prepared for Arthur to throw something at him and tell him to stop fucking around.

He was not prepared for Arthur to nod and say “Oh, okay.”

Because the Arthur of two years ago (not to mention present-day Arthur) _hated_ Eames, didn’t he? The glares, the eyerolls, the endless nitpicking— these were hardly declarations of affection… right? 

And Eames _earned_ those eyerolls with his endless provocation: seeing how far he could push before he hit a boundary, and then edging past it, just for fun.

They were… not _enemies_ , but _rivals_ , certainly. Although “rivals” suggested they were competing for something. And as Eames looked at Arthur’s unassuming expression, he realized that the competition had been who would give in first.

He wasn’t sure who had won.

 


	5. Hubris, Apotheosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: role reversal

“We’re going to have to change our plan of attack,” Dom says. “Unless we can find someone new.”

Eames carelessly drank the local water, and now he’s on a course of antibiotics that don’t play well with Somnacin. He’s stuck topside, doing research, and the team is out a forger.

“I’ll try it,” Arthur says. “How hard could it be?”

Eames snorts.

“What? I’m very observant!”

“Forging is more than just observation, darling. You need to _feel_ the person in your bones. It’s hard to explain.”

“Evidently,” Arthur grumbles. “Whatever, let’s go under and I’ll give it a shot.”

***

Once they’re in the dreamscape, Arthur focuses and shifts into Dom.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dom says.

“Weird to see yourself, huh?” Arthur can’t help but be smug.

“…Not exactly,” Dom says, conjuring up a mirror. Arthur recoils.

Ariadne starts giggling. “You look like Sloth from The Goonies!” Arthur gives her the finger.

Ariadne demands that he try her next. He does better, in that he looks like a human, but he gets her eye color wrong and forgets to make himself shorter.

He tries Yusuf, but he can’t make his hair curly.

He tries Saito, but the result is vaguely racist.

Arthur shuts his eyes in frustration as Dom and Ariadne start arguing about alternate plans. _Eames was right. Eames, with his stupid face and his shoulders and his pocket-watch and…_

Dom interrupts his self-recrimination. “Eames? I thought you couldn’t come under with us.” He looks around, squints. “Where’d Arthur go?”


	6. Eye on the Prize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames are bare-knuckle boxers during the Great Depression.
> 
> (Alternate title: "And Now for Something Completely Different")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "opportunity," historical AU
> 
> As usual, this was saved by ladyprydian, who knows her history and an unexpected amount about bare-knuckle boxing.

They circled each other slowly, deaf to the bloodthirsty shouts echoing off the low ceiling. In the dim light cast by the kerosene lamps stationed around the makeshift ring, Eames could see a trickle of blood leaving Arthur’s nose. Eames tongued the split in his lip and eyed the corresponding rusty smear on Arthur’s knuckles.  
  
It wasn’t the most dignified way to make a living, but in lean times like these, dignity came second to having coal in mid-January.  
  
Arthur darted forward and swung, but Eames ducked out of the way. The shouts grew louder, more raucous, and the bruise forming around Eames’s right eye thrummed in time with the noise.  
  
Eames was a crowd favorite: partly because of his charm, but mostly because they saw his broad, inked body as a monument to lost masculinity, a reminder of a time before Hoovervilles and five-hour waits in bread lines.   
  
But Arthur — Arthur was a scrapper, 145 pounds of lean muscle and lightning-quick reflexes. It was easy to underestimate him; Eames learned that lesson a long time ago.  
  
Arthur’s fist connected with his ribs, but Eames got in two hits to Arthur’s one. Arthur retreated, spat blood on the sawdust-covered floor. He was getting tired, Eames could tell. Or possibly bored.  
  
Even in this sweltering room packed with dirty bodies and smoke, Eames could pick out the scent of Arthur’s sweat.  
  
He saw an opening and launched himself at Arthur, who went down with a well-timed jab to the chin. The crowd pressed in around Eames, whistling and cheering; he accepted their congratulations and the prize money, and went to offer Arthur a hand up.  
  
“Next time, I win,” Arthur murmured in his ear when he was standing.  
  
Eames squeezed his hand. “I’ll see you back at the flat, darling.”


	7. Now People Will Really Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariadne comes to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: trapped together
> 
> (Alternate title: Did Someone Say 'Sex Farce'?)

“I don’t want to know,” Ariadne announces as she walks into the room with a set of lockpicks.  
  
“It wasn’t a sex thing!” Arthur protests.  
  
“It was totally a sex thing,” Eames says.  
  
“I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure you’re only supposed to handcuff  _one_  of you to the bed.”  
  
Arthur shifts uncomfortably under the duvet while Ariadne selects her picks and gets to work. “It’s Eames’s fault. His hands were slippery.”  
  
“Because of all the lube,” Eames adds, helpfully. “You can never have too much lube, you know.”  
  
“You  _can_ ,” Arthur hisses, “when it causes you to close the handcuff on  _your own wrist_  and then  _drop the key into the heating vent_.”  
  
“To be fair, pet, your panicked flailing is what made me drop the key. Hence the restraints to begin with.”  
  
Arthur reddens further.  
  
“I’m learning  _so much_  about you guys,” Ariadne remarks as she liberates Eames.  
  
“We can take it from here,” Arthur says, pushing her off the bed with his free arm. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”  
  
“Already tweeted a photo to Yusuf!” Ariadne disappears with a grin.  
  
Arthur moans. “I’m never leaving this room.”  
  
Eames snaps the newly-opened cuff onto the headboard. “Excellent!”


	8. I Am Your Density

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur isn't good at changing his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "remorse," pre-canon

Arthur immediately regretted turning Eames down; as he boarded his flight he could still envision the disappointment that had flitted across Eames’s face when Arthur had refused his proposition. They’d been in the airport bar, toasting a successful job, when Arthur had asked Eames where he was headed.

“I’m going back to Mombasa. You should come with me.”

Arthur had rolled his eyes at that; although this was the only job they’d worked together, he’d already gotten used to Eames’s relentless (and aimless) flirting. Like anyone often accused of being “too serious,” Arthur had developed a nearly flawless ability to tell when someone was messing with him.

_Nearly_ flawless, Arthur had reminded himself when he’d seen Eames’s face fall for a moment, quickly replaced by an insincere grin. But it was too late; like anyone often accused of being “too serious,” Arthur had a deep-seated inability to change his mind. At least, not right away. It was like turning an aircraft-carrier around; it couldn’t be done too quickly.

But the regret — that was a maneuverable little speedboat.

***

It took Eames a minute or so to notice Arthur, standing amongst the emergency personnel swarming the terminal.

“What happened?”

“Someone called in a bomb threat on my flight.”

“Really,” Eames said, arching an eyebrow. “What are the odds.”

“I know, what’s the world coming to,” Arthur said. “I think I’m going to need some weather-appropriate clothes if I’m going to Kenya.”

“Darling, where we’re going, we don’t _need_ clothes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's my final installment! Thanks for reading! And a big thank you to ladyprydian for being an awesome beta, and sibilantly for organizing AELDWS! I had a blast. :-D
> 
> Also, someone in their anonymous feedback suggested that Eames was the one who called in the bomb threat. I had been thinking Arthur, but I *love* the idea that Eames called it in, so let's pretend the ambiguity was intentional!


	9. An Indecent Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames’s dirty talk is a little strange. And when it comes to dirty talk, Arthur knows from strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reopening this "story" because I'm participating in the AELDWS "lightning round"! This is the first of five more drabbles that will be added here. Thanks to ladyprydian for continuing to be an awesome beta. :-D
> 
> Genre: canon; Prompt: indecent proposal (which I took rather literally)

Arthur’s heard some weird things in bed. Farm animal noises. Yodeling. One guy rather memorably sang “Space Oddity” the entire time he gave Arthur a hand job.  
  
But those all seem normal when compared to “marry me,” which is apparently Eames’s sexual expletive of choice.  
  
The first time Eames said it — which was also the first time they’d fallen into bed together, after a particularly risky job in Barcelona — Arthur nearly bit down in surprise. (And discovered that Eames likes a little bit of teeth.)  
  
But by now he’s used to it.   
  
He’s used to reverent  _marry-me_ s chanted like a mantra; used to beseeching  _marry-me_ s interspersed with bitten-off profanity and requests for “more” and “faster” and “harder”; used to one long, labored  _marry me_  punched out of Eames’s chest as he comes.   
  
So used to it, in fact, that after the Fischer job, when he and Eames are making good use of the king-sized bed in the “Stone Canyon Suite” at the Hotel Bel-Air and Eames does something particularly talented with his hips, Arthur forgets himself and answers, “Fuck, yes.”   
  
Eames stops.  
  
Arthur opens his eyes.  
  
Eames is beaming down at him.  
  
“Why did you  _stop_?”  
  
“Do you really mean it?”  
  
“What, that I want you to keep going? Yes.” Arthur jabs a heel into Eames’s left kidney to punctuate his statement.  
  
“No, the other thing.” Eames raises his eyebrows meaningfully and Arthur rewinds through his not-altogether-coherent memories of the past thirty seconds.  
  
“…Oh. Wait, that was a genuine request?”  
  
“It’s  _always_  a genuine request.”  
  
“If I say yes, will you go back to doing what you were doing?”  
  
***  
  
It turns out that Eames’s  _actual_  sexual expletive of choice is “darling.”


	10. Ground Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are two lists tacked to the warehouse wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: body swap

 ARTHUR’S RULES FOR EAMES

-You will not, under any circumstances, let polyester touch my skin

-I’ve provided you with a specific hair gel. You will use it.

-Wear a shirt at all times. Shirtless is not an alternative to polyester.

-No tattoos. **how about a small, tasteful one? on your arse?** NO TATTOOS. I WILL RIP YOUR THROAT OUT WITH MY BARE HANDS. **technically it’s** **your** **throat.**

- ~~No jerking off~~ No  telling me about jerking off.

-That includes sending me video clips, FFS _You can send me the clips!_ Ariadne, stop encouraging him.

-That also includes texting me at 3am asking how I get by without a foreskin.

-Really just no foreskin talk at all.  **but darling, how many people have this opportunity? we’re like the Tiresias of foreskins.**

-Oh my god, no piercings either. HOW DOES THIS NOT GO WITHOUT SAYING.

 

** EAMES’S RULES FOR ARTHUR **

**-you must spend at least twenty minutes each morning admiring your nude body in a full-length mirror**

**-no shaving below the neck <— THIS INCLUDES WAXING TOO YOU MANIAC**

**-trousers must be loosely tailored, my bollocks need to breathe** You seem to have an inaccurate sense of the size of your own balls. **they need to breathe, Arthur!**

**-do not skip leg day**

**-I’m lactose intolerant so add cream to your coffee at your own risk** You could have told me this BEFORE you watched me eat an entire ice cream cone. **I was distracted**

**-you will NOT say the following words: aluminum, schedule, controversy (I don’t want my mouth learning bad habits)**

**-toss off as much as you’d like, in fact I encourage it, feel free to document it** I am not documenting my masturbation sessions. **so you ARE tossing off, then?** Shut up. **how are you enjoying my foreskin?** SHUT UP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think "we're like the Tiresias of foreskins" may be the most profound sentence ever committed to (electronic) paper, to be honest.
> 
> Update: [I made a graphic version of this drabble](http://involuntaryorange.tumblr.com/post/133286210035/i-couldnt-resist-making-a-graphic-version-of-my) (graphic in the sense that it is **a** graphic, not in the sense that it is **more graphic**.


	11. Whiskey and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets a mysterious new client.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: detective noir AU, "smoke"

I was looking over Mrs. Jenkins’s file when he walked into my office. He looked like a sausage draped in gabardine, overstuffed and obscured. 

“Are you Arthur?”

“Sure am. What can I do for you, Mr.…?” I asked, as I flicked shut the folder containing evidence of Mr. Jenkins’s unfaithfulness. Time was, being a detective meant hunting down spies and solving murders, but I spent most of my time catching cheating husbands so their wives could wring them dry in court.

He sprawled in the chair like a broken umbrella. “Just Eames.” His voice was whiskey-rough, but his accent was as smooth as a polished stone. “I’m looking for someone, and I’m hoping you can help me find him.”

“I can do my best,” I replied. “What can you tell me about him?”

He sighed deeply. I’ve heard a lot of sighs in my day, and this one reeked of longing and desperation. “I don’t know much. He’s a professional. Ex-military, I think. I know he lives here in New York.” He paused while I jotted down some notes. “I believe he’s in his late twenties. He’s clever. Brunette. Always has a scowl on his beautiful face.”

I frowned as I wrote down the details. It was a strange, sparse description, though I’d certainly worked on less evidence before. Remind me to tell you about the time I found a long-lost child starting with only a single shoelace. 

“D’you have a light?” I looked up from my notebook; Eames had a cigarette dangling dangerously from his lips. When I nodded he leaned toward me, bracing his hands on my desk. He looked me straight in the eye as I lit his cigarette, and I felt the heat as he drew in a slow breath and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

And then he was gone, heading for the door. “Thanks for your help, darling,” he said as he opened it.

“Wait, you haven’t told me how you knew this guy.”

“I never said I knew him.” He winked and left.

I stared at the door for a while, before shaking my head and getting back to work. People are strange. 

I flipped open the Jenkins folder again. The photos were gone, and in their place was a business card:

> _Eames  
>  Private Detective  
> “Dreaming Bigger”_

I poured myself a glass of whiskey.


	12. Experimental Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf's new compound has some unanticipated side effects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: in somnacin veritas (i.e. confessions under the influence of somnacin)

“So?” Yusuf asks, when Arthur and Eames wake up, “How did it work?”

“It was _awesome_ ,” Arthur says, grinning. As odd as the generous compliment is, the smile is far odder.

“My bollocks itched a lot in the dream,” Eames comments sadly. “Did you do something to make my bollocks itch, Yusuf? Why would you do that?”

Arthur honest-to-god _giggles_. “Bollocks. That means ‘balls.’” He clumsily flips his tie up over his face in what must be an attempt to smother his laughter.

Yusuf winces, more at the thought of how much wasted work he’s put into this compound than at the fact that he’s apparently gotten two colleagues stoned. “Okay, mates, let’s call this experiment a failure and—“

“My favorite movie is ‘Speed,’” Arthur says, through his tie.

“That’s… nice?”

“I once pissed on Westminster Abbey,” Eames says. “To impress a girl.”

“I steal Dom’s yogurt whenever I work with him. He blames Ariadne.”

“I once had a sex dream about Ariadne.”

“I once had a sex dream about _Eames_. And also other times.”

Eames turns to Arthur and beams. “I’ve had sex dreams about you, too! Wait, does it count if it’s intentional?”

“Eames,” Arthur says, suddenly serious. He sits up and the tie falls away from his face. “I think we should make out.”

“Oh no, nonono,” Yusuf says, moving between them. “No snogging while you’re high.”

Eames and Arthur turn matching pouts toward Yusuf.

\---

_Experiment results: decreased inhibition; chaperoned “Speed” showing; they ate all my Oreos._

 


	13. Day 658

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's someone new in the neighbourhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: apocalypse AU, "gift"

The first gift showed up on day 583. Eames had spent most of the morning on his dilapidated porch trying to shorten some trousers he’d scrounged up, hacking away at the bottom hems with his long-dulled Swiss Army knife. After his mid-afternoon nap he went back out to find a small parcel sitting on his front steps, tied up in a bit of flannel. It was a hunting knife, the blade razor-sharp and gleaming.

He looked around; the street seemed as deserted, as usual. Most people had left the area after the skips had been picked over, moved into makeshift trailer communities near the water. It wasn’t unusual for an entire week to go by without seeing another soul. But now — there was an unfamiliar man at the house down the block with the blue shutters, standing in the doorless entryway and watching Eames. Eames nodded. The man nodded back and disappeared into the house.

The next week, after Eames had used the knife to divide up a tarp to cover the holes in his roof, butcher three rabbits and a raccoon, and cut an old sheet into ribbons for bandages (he always managed to burn the shit out of himself when he sterilized his water over his fire pit), he dragged a box out from under his bed. He had two chocolate bars left. He tied a new bandage around one in a sloppy bow and left it just inside the man’s doorway.

On day 602 there was another package, this one containing a bottle of iodine tablets. Eames rattled the bottle with his swathed hands and grinned at the thought of his palms finally having a chance to heal.

The box under the bed came back out. This time Eames chose a small glass prism he’d found, which cast hundreds of rainbows across the walls when it caught the sunlight. He felt an unaccountable warmth when he saw it hanging in one of the man’s upstairs windows a few days later.

On day 619 it was a broad-brimmed hat, the day after Eames had fallen asleep on his porch and woken up with a bright red nose. Eames gave him a silk handkerchief he’d snatched up in the early days, when there were still nice things to be found.

Day 637: a crank-powered flashlight. That evening, Eames sat by the light and used his hunting knife to carve a knob of maple into a delicate cat figurine, its tail wrapped around its body in a sinuous line.

On day 658 Eames walked out onto his porch hoping — as he did every afternoon — that there would be a new parcel waiting for him. There wasn’t.

The man was there, leaning against a column graceful as can be, which was no small feat because the wood was rotted and would give way under any real weight. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Arthur.”

“Eames.” They shook.

He turned out to be the most useful gift yet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for now! I'll reopen this if I participate in another round of AELDWS. Thanks to ladyprydian for beta-ing, and Sibilantly for running this whole thing!


	14. Paragons of Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is drunk, and he's pretty sure Arthur is done with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting a new round of AELDWS for Inceptiversary, so there will be 5 new drabbles over the next 5 weeks!
> 
> This week's prompt: "locked out"

When Eames gets back from the pub, he discovers the locks on Arthur’s flat have been changed.  
  
He sits down on the stoop with the weight of seven drinks.  
  
The first drink was because Arthur scheduled a job with Martinez during Eames’s birthday. The second drink was because Eames _may have_ gotten a bit pissy when he found out. Sure, he’d never told Arthur when his birthday was, but it’s the _principle_ of the thing, and he’d been planning a romantic trip to Reykjavik.  
  
The third drink was because when Eames indulged in said pissiness, Arthur asked, “Is this because I fucked Martinez?”  
  
Drinks four through seven were because of the ensuing argument, which basically consisted of Eames asking if there was anyone in dreamshare Arthur _hadn’t_ fucked, and Arthur pointing out that Eames was hardly a paragon of virtue himself, and Eames saying that at least he’d slept with strangers, not colleagues, and then Arthur said, “And obviously sleeping with colleagues is always a bad idea.” Then Eames stormed out and now, seven drinks later, he’s sitting on Arthur’s doorstep with his head in his hands. It was only a matter of time, really; take two bloody-minded geniuses who have never been in long-term relationships, put them together, and frankly you’re lucky if nobody loses a limb.  
  
“Eames? Why are you sitting on the neighbor’s stoop?”  
  
Eames snaps his head up and immediately regrets it when the world spins. Arthur is standing next door, silhouetted against the flat’s warm light.  
  
“It’s my birthday,” he confesses, under the veil of darkness.  
  
Arthur’s head tilts. “No it isn’t; your birthday is next month.” Then: “Oh. _Oh._ I didn’t think you’d care.”  
  
“I didn’t think I would either,” Eames says.  
  
“You’re such a dumbass,” Arthur says. “Come home.”  
  
So Eames does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random trivia: originally I included the detail that Eames's key to Arthur's flat had a little rubber luchador mask on it, but I had to cut that for space.


	15. When it Alteration Finds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "altered," post-canon

It took Arthur a while to figure out Eames’s tattoos, even though Eames was constitutionally incapable of keeping his shirt on if he had the option of removing it. They worked half a dozen jobs together before he made the connections: a feather after a Shakespearean romp through the subconscious of a famous English literature scholar; a Madonna and child after reuniting a woman with her long-lost daughter; a wolf after a rather unfortunate Twilight-themed job. In dreams he was fluid, but topside, Eames wore his triumphs and his failures etched inexorably into his skin.  
  
The first time they worked together after inception, Arthur was understandably curious to see how Eames had commemorated the job to end all jobs. But for once, Eames kept his shirt on. He seemed almost neurotic about it, constantly checking to make sure his buttons were done up, fiddling with his cuffs. Arthur itched to unwrap him.  
  
Months later, in a hotel room, muted television flickering across Eames’s unreadable gaze, Arthur finally worked those buttons free, kissing revealed skin.  
  
And Arthur understood when he traced the words inked across Eames’s breast, right above his heart:  
  
 _i will lead them on a merry chase_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ladyprydian for being an excellent beta! (And to BakerStMel for betaing the previous drabble!)


	16. There are Plenty of Good Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cobb has stolen a lot from Eames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "bitter," canon

Eames isn’t bitter. He’s not. He just doesn’t understand why Cobb keeps stealing people from him.  
  
First was Mallorie. Lovely Mallorie, with whom Eames used to skive off maths class to smoke behind the school. Cobb stole her and chipped away at her, bit by bit: he dulled the sparkle in her eyes, carved out her insides until she was nothing but a hollow shell—made her into something wrong. _Mal_.  
  
And then when what remained of Mallorie had toppled from a hotel window, Cobb stole Arthur: literally called him in the middle of the night, drew him from Eames’s bed, yoked Arthur to his side as he fled his fate. Eames had only seen Arthur in passing since that night, but it was enough to notice the shadows under his eyes, the slight dishevelment to his clothes.  
  
When Cobb showed up in Mombasa, asking for his help, Eames almost told him to shove off. (Almost gave him to Cobol, and wouldn’t _that_ have been satisfying). But then Cobb mentioned inception, and _then_ Cobb mentioned Arthur, and, well, Eames has never pretended he’s not weak.  
  
And now, Cobb’s stolen Yusuf, manipulated him into betraying an entire team and endangering their lives. Endangering _Arthur’s_ life.  
  
But the only way out is through, so Eames gets them through. He bids Cobb a silent good riddance at the airport, and he watches Arthur retrieve his luggage, and he thinks that perhaps it’s time to steal some things back.  
  
Eames _is_ a thief, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ladyprydian for rescuing this drabble, as she so often does!


	17. Dream Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All men dream, but not equally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "skin," magical realism AU

The first time it happens, it’s an accident. Arthur needs the art for the Cobol project so he can start coding, and when he gets to Eames’s cubicle he discovers the guy passed out on his keyboard. The USB drive is sitting right there on the desk, and Eames deserves his sleep after several days of non-stop work, so Arthur decides to just grab the drive. But as he’s reaching for it, Eames’s head shifts slightly, brushing the shell of his ear against Arthur’s bare forearm, and Arthur is jolted into his dream.  
  
He’s only there for a second before he yanks his arm away, but it’s enough to see— _beauty_. Something dazzling, a riot of color and sound and possibly taste. He stumbles back to his desk with the drive.  
  
It wasn’t enough. Eames tends to work himself into the ground, which means he falls asleep at his computer a lot; on late nights, when the office is deserted, Arthur finds himself gently placing a finger on Eames’s neck or wrist, letting the dreamscape overtake him for a moment.  
  
He knows it’s wrong. There aren’t exactly _laws_ against it, but it’s generally agreed that dreamsharing is meant for lovers lying tangled in bed, not creepy coworkers sneaking peeks. He knows he’s violating Eames’s trust. He’s _definitely_ violating the firm’s harassment policy.  
  
But he’s addicted.  
  
Arthur’s dreams are… dull. He’s late for work or his teeth are falling out or he’s having sex with an anonymous, faceless person. He didn’t even know they could be— breathtaking. Heartbreaking.   
  
He falls in love with Eames in his dreams.   
  
And he’s resigned to keeping it there. Until one night, watching colors splash across a night sky, he feels a hand in his, and a familiar voice in his ear, saying: _hello, darling_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ladyprydian for beta-ing, as usual!
> 
> Also, although the connections may not be obvious, this drabble owes a debt of gratitude to [this Teen Wolf fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2272167/chapters/4992168), which is really good.


	18. And So It Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is a series of choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "the road not taken"

Arthur is five years old. He’s in the schoolyard with his classmates, watching them play. Last week Arthur sat at his desk and colored while Mrs. Cunningham told his mother she was concerned he wasn’t making friends. Yesterday Arthur’s mom said, “You should play with some of your classmates at recess. I’m sure they would love for you to join in.”  
  
The girls are jumping rope, and Arthur thinks it looks like fun. The boys are playing freeze tag, and it also looks like fun. Arthur thinks he could be good at jumping rope. He starts to walk over to them but Mark runs up and tags him and he’s frozen.  
  
He plays with the boys from then on.  
  
***  
  
Arthur is twelve. His mother can’t afford both gymnastics lessons and Little League, so he has to choose one. He loves the gym: he loves the dizzying feeling of doing a tumbling run, he loves landing a vault with his arms high in the air.  
  
He loves the instructor, too, in a way he doesn’t fully understand. Brody smells good and he wears tank tops that show his arm muscles and when he smiles at Arthur, Arthur feels warm inside.  
  
But that heat turns prickly when the boys at school find out he does gymnastics. They call his slippers “faggy” and make jokes about leotards even though Arthur doesn’t wear leotards.  
  
He chooses Little League, where he plays second base and his teammates cheer him on. Nobody makes fun of his uniform. He gets his ass slapped and wonders why that isn’t faggy. He never slaps anyone back.  
  
***  
  
Arthur is eighteen and he wants to be an architect. He gets accepted to college on the other side of the country, where nobody will know him. He can start fresh.  
  
But college is expensive, and the military will pay his tuition. He joins NROTC. He'll be a marine. He’s part of a team again, and he wears a uniform again, and he keeps his head down in the locker room again.  
  
He graduates without any student loans, but plenty of debt.  
  
***  
  
Arthur is twenty-six and he’s fulfilled his service requirement. He’s died a thousand times over in his sleep.  
  
He’s ready to move to San Francisco and start his career. To have control of his dreams again. But one of his old commanding officers calls him with a job offer. “It’s not, strictly speaking, legal,” Dom says. Arthur’s used to hiding; he thinks it might be a nice change of pace to hide from the authorities instead of everyone else.  
  
***  
  
Arthur is twenty-eight and he meets a thief. The thief has blue eyes and twitchy fingers, and he smirks like he can read Arthur’s thoughts. He dresses like a 1940s gangster and acts like he’s never been afraid of himself.  
  
He offers Arthur a cigarette, and when he leans in and lights it with his own, he looks Arthur straight in the eye. Strips him bare.  
  
For once, Arthur doesn’t look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends another round of AELDWS! Thanks to Pry for being an awesome beta, and to Sibilantly for running the whole thing.
> 
> Five serious drabbles in a row, you guys. That's a new record for me. (I think two would have been a record for me.)


End file.
